Preying in Two Harbors

By Dennis Herschbach

A young man is found beaten to death, a radical reverend runs a suspect commune, the most sacred areas of a Catholic church are desecrated, a sabotaged railroad track leads to a deadly derailment, and a Jewish holocaust survivor is hung in effigy. All happen in too short a time span to say they are not related. When the sheriff of Lake County is shot in the back, ambushed, Deidre Johnson comes out of retirement to solve the crimes. Preying in Two Harbors is the fourth book of the Two Harbors mystery series written by Dennis Herschbach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: May 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780878397433

Dennis Herschbach

Author Dennis Herschbach selects the topics for his mystery novels from accounts of societal problems and places them in the setting of a small, northern Minnesota community. Through his novels, he raises the reader’s awareness to issues that sometimes fly under our social radar. This is the fifth book in the Two Harbors mystery series.

Book preview

Fifty-Three

Preface

Extremism, whether right or left, whether secular or religious, can be, and many times is, dangerous. Ideologies become so firmly entrenched in an individual’s or a group’s thinking, irrational decisions become the norm and those involved become blinded by fear, by distrust, by hate.

Preying in Two Harbors is totally fiction. True, many of the places are real, and even some of the characters were inspired by people the author may have known. Most of the characters are composites of persons, drawing from an incident in one life, another incident in another’s. Yet, the theme is one that is real. In Minnesota, a self-proclaimed minister was charged with fifty-nine counts of sexual assault involving underage followers. He escaped being taken into custody and is currently wanted by authorities. According to an article in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, August 14, 2014, he was spotted in Washington. Incredibly, he was seen with a young woman, who he escorted to a waiting car.

In another article, the Star Tribune described a person with alleged ties to a white supremacist group who was apprehended while in possession of grenades, bullet-resistant vests, a fully automatic Uzi, a Sig Sauer AR-15 rifle, three fully loaded, thirty-round AR magazines, and a fully loaded sixty-round magazine.

An FBI posting begins, Last March, nine members of an extremist militia group were charged in Michigan with seditious conspiracy and attempted use of weapons of mass destruction in connection with an alleged plot to attack law enforcement and spark an uprising against the government. The article went on to say that many militia groups subscribe to the idea they are protecting the U.S. Constitution.

The celebrating began before the coroner could collect the bodies of two Las Vegas police officers who were ambushed and executed while eating at a pizzeria. An entry on a Facebook page said to celebrate because there were two less police in the world. The entry received 6,300 likes before it was taken down.

The Two Harbors mystery series is fiction, but any reader can do their own research and discover that the topics written about are very real societal problems, and the author has attempted to draw to the public’s awareness that these problems do exist.

Chapter One

It was the last week of April, the first real spring day in Two Harbors, and on the corner of Waterfront Drive and First Avenue, Reverend Isaiah (at least, that’s what he called himself) waved his floppy, tattered Bible, thundering to anyone who would listen.

Wake up, America. Repent or experience God’s wrath. Repent before it’s too late to be saved.

His piercing blue eyes were sunk deeply into his face. They, along with a sharp, hooked nose, gave him the appearance of a hawk hunting prey. Reverend Isaiah thrust a bony finger toward The Pub, a local watering hole across the street from where he held sway, and continued his harangue.

There, my brothers, is a den of iniquity, a place where the sinful prepare their places in hell! He swept his wizened hand in the direction of the bar and grill. A burly man in biker garb tried to pass on the sidewalk, but the reverend stepped in front of him. Are you saved, brother? Because if you’re not, time is running out, and you’re going to be judged by God Almighty.

The man tried to step around the gaunt figure blocking his path, but the old man would not get out of his way. Finally, the befuddled biker said something and pushed his way past, crossed the street and looked back at the corner where the reverend was standing. He opened the door to The Pub, but before he could enter he heard one last salvo.

You just opened a gate to hell, my friend. I’ll be praying for you, the preacher bellowed.

Across the street two middle-school-aged boys were jostling each other as they walked. One had his arm thrown over the shoulders of the other. They turned and stared as Reverend Isaiah railed at them.

Abomination! That’s what it is, abomination! Get your arm off his body. God commands men to stay away from men, demands that women stay away from women. This is how it begins, unnatural affection for each other. Do not fall into the trap set by those who would say that God is love. God is an angry God, a jealous God who demands our obedience. He is a God who punishes us for our own good. The Almighty God has told me this town, your town, is an abomination to God, and like Sodom and Gomorrah, he is about to destroy you unless you repent of your sinful ways.

The two boys looked across the street at Reverend Isaiah in disbelief. One shook his head and said something to his friend, and they laughed. But they stepped apart as though a barrier now existed between them and walked on down the street. They weren’t laughing or jostling each other. That moment of innocence had been extinguished by the reverend’s unwarranted judgment. He continued his tirade until a cold breeze picked up off Lake Superior, killing the spring day.

Reverend Isaiah stomped away from what he considered his corner, murmuring under his breath as he skulked down the street. He climbed behind the wheel of a battered, ten-year-old Ford Escort and pulled away from the curb, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if traffic was coming. An alert driver slammed on his brakes, averting what otherwise would have been a collision.

*****

Climbing gradually, Highway 2 ran straight north out of Two Harbors. About three miles from town, the grade rapidly increased until cars, and especially trucks, labored to clear the crest. Near the top of what locals called Five Mile Hill, the highway intersected on the right with Gun Club Road. A little way down that road, on the left, sat what had been a country school in the 1920s.

After students began to be bused into town for classes, the school was closed. The building became a township hall, then a community center, then stood abandoned until a biker group bought it for their clubhouse. They hand-painted a sign with the Harley-Davidson symbol on it and the words Death Riders in large black letters.

That crazy old coot, Reverend Isaiah, was in town again today, a man with The Hammer tattooed in blue and red letters on each forearm said as he leaned back in his chair. He and a half-dozen other bikers were sitting on the porch, soaking up the April sun. He got up and plucked a beer from a cooler, popped the top, and returned to his chair. On the wall was nailed a notice, No Fags Allowed. Without waiting for anyone to respond to his announcement, he continued.

He stopped me on the street and asked if I was saved. I said, ‘Hell no, and I don’t want to be. I want to go down in a blaze of flames, just like a comet burning itself out.’ The old goat kept at me until I pushed him out of the way. Hammer stopped to laugh at his own private joke.

A couple of the others laughed, and the one called Blackie gave him a verbal jab. Better be careful, that old man’ll put you on your back! She took a toke on the weed she was smoking. Hammer mumbled something under his breath. He was six-foot-six and weighed in at two hundred eighty pounds. The scarecrow reverend would hardly have stood a chance in a physical altercation.

Tell you what, another two weeks and we’ll be riding our bikes anywhere we want. I’d like to take a road trip far away from here. What say, anybody up for that? Most of the group was too wasted to respond.

One of them looked at the blue sky and responded, Sure, Hammer, sure. We’ll ride with you. Why don’t you go inside and make the plans? We’ll follow you. He rolled in a ball and laughed and laughed as though he had made the greatest joke of all time. Then he instantly sobered and stood up. You dumb shit. We ain’t goin’ no place. You’re as nuts as that preacher.

Hammer charged from his chair and hit Scy, short for Scythe, in his midsection with a full shoulder tackle. Together they tumbled off the porch into the cold mud and wrestled until they were covered in the red-clay goop. The two men were of equal size and neither could gain the upper hand. Finally, each lay on his back, exhausted.

Come on, you dumb shit, let’s get another beer, Scy capitulated, and they slogged their way back onto the porch. Hammer went inside, but before sitting down, Scy grabbed another beer, then took a puff of what Blackie was smoking. Five minutes later, Hammer returned to the porch. He had washed the mud off and changed into cleaner clothes, and he wore a baseball cap, backwards so it wouldn’t fly off. Above its brim was his name, Hammer, and underneath the Harley symbol.

I’m going into town to see if there’s any action. It’s getting too cold to sit out here. Any of you numb-nuts wanna come? No one answered. Don’t forget to lock up when you leave, were his final words. He fired up his Harley and roared away in a spray of mud and noise.

*****

Deidre Johnson stood at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. Her husband, Ben VanGotten, had driven their twin daughters to soccer practice in town, and she had stayed home to clean up after supper. It was a beautiful Saturday evening in the country, the end of the first nice day of spring, but as she looked out the window, she experienced a feeling of unrest that had gradually crept into her life the past few months.

She and Ben were married when his daughters were five. Now they were ten, almost eleven. Awhile ago, reality hit her. She was thirty-seven years old, had never had a child, was a stay-at-home mom, and was becoming a regular Suzie Homemaker. The girls didn’t need her the way they had when they were little, and she sensed their growing independence would only leave her more isolated. Not that life was bad.

After they married, Ben had stumbled onto a real gem, forty acres of rural land fronting the west branch of the Knife River. It had a wonderful building site, and they constructed a home that fit the property perfectly. She had a garden, solitude when she wanted it, and a wonderful family. Still, she couldn’t shake the unrest that gnawed at her when she was alone.

Deidre had been involved in law enforcement since her graduation from college, first as a deputy, then sheriff, and after she was forced out of that job, as a special appointee of the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. She had worked tough cases, dangerous cases, and thought she was ready to give up all that excitement and settle down. Now she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted.

Her introspection was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling into the yard and of two doors slamming in unison. Megan and Maren, her adopted daughters, stomped into the house. How’d the game go, girls? Deidre asked, not really needing an answer.

We lost, Maren pouted.

Bad, Megan added. Both made a beeline for their rooms without pausing. Ben stood in the doorway.

Those two. I don’t know what we’re going to do with them. They’re so competitive they embarrass me. Megan wouldn’t shake hands with the opposing team members, and Maren told each of them as they passed, ‘Next time, sucker.’ I told them we were considering not letting them play in their next game. Can you talk to coach tomorrow?

Oh sure, make me the bad cop. She smiled and wrapped her arms around her husband’s midsection. Let me talk to the girls in a few minutes. If I can’t make any progress, I’ll see her tomorrow and figure out an appropriate punishment. Okay?

Okay, he said, and led his wife outside so he could cool off. As they walked on the path that followed the riverbank, he stopped and put his arm around Deidre’s shoulders. What would we ever have done if you hadn’t come into our lives? I think that every day and give thanks for what I have. He kissed her on the cheek. Deidre said nothing but leaned closer to him. They were silent for many minutes as they watched the clear water spill over boulders buried in the streambed. Suddenly, a steelhead, a lake-run rainbow trout, broke the surface and leaped from one of the riffles. As it disappeared in its own splash, Deidre and Ben gasped in surprise. They laughed and returned to the house. That night Deidre and the girls had a long talk about sportsmanship and enjoying the game.

After watching the ten o’clock news with Ben, she decided it was time to have a serious talk with him. She didn’t quite know how to begin. She turned off the TV and cleared her throat.

Can we talk for a minute or two? She looked at Ben from across the room. He was sitting in his recliner, and reacting to Deidre’s words, he brought it upright.

If this is about the girls and their coach, I’ll be glad to handle it. I didn’t mean to push it off on you. He looked worried, afraid he had expected too much.

Deidre laughed at his discomfort. Don’t be foolish. We’re in this together, and I want to hold up my end of the deal. No, it’s not that at all. Really, what I want to talk about is how our family is changing. The girls don’t need me as much anymore. I’m alone all day while you’re at work and they’re at school. I think I’m beginning to become too much of a recluse. What would you think of my trying to find a job? I know you support us well, but I think I need to get out more, you know, be with people. What do you think of the idea?

Ben took a minute before answering. You don’t need to ask my permission. I want you to be happy, to live your own life. I’ve no doubt you’ll never put anything ahead of me or the girls, so I say go for it, if that’s what you want. Any idea what you’d like to do? Just don’t tell me you have your heart set on working at the plant in Silver Bay. He was referring to the taconite processing facility that was dirty, noisy, and dangerous.

Again, Deidre laughed. No, nothing dirty, noisy, or dangerous. I was thinking of trying to get on at the school as a teacher aide, or maybe getting a job at The Pub as a waitress. Thanks for your vote of confidence. Maybe I’ll begin looking around on Monday to see what’s out there.

Hand in hand, they climbed the stairs to their bedroom. Ben gave her a loving pat on her fanny as they entered the room.

Chapter Two

Nine-one-one, the dispatcher intoned. What is the problem?"

Send an ambulance as soon as you can! We need an ambulance!

Please slow down and speak calmly. Now, where are you located?

The 911 operator heard the man on the other end of the line take a deep breath. I’m near the soccer field off Paul Antonich Drive. There’s a man lying by the side of the road, and he’s unconscious. It looks as if he’s been hit by a car, or something.

Is he breathing?

I think so, but he’s in a bad way. Can you hurry?

The operator asked him to stay with the injured man. An ambulance should arrive in minutes. She continued to talk, keeping him on the line.

I hear it coming. The caller sounded relieved. I can see its flashing lights. He ended the call.

*****

Officer Dan Zemple of the Two Harbors Police Department made a note of the time. 9:46 p.m. He had started his Saturday shift at eight and was looking forward to getting off at eight Sunday morning. That meant he would have four days before having to start another stint of four twelves in a row. He liked the arrangement. It meant he could spend several days fishing the many rivers that flowed into Lake Superior. Right now, he had something else on his mind. A Ford F-150 pickup was parked near the breakwater of the harbor. Its motor was running but all its lights were turned off. He shined his flashlight through its side window.

A large, bearded man lay slumped over the steering wheel, and he didn’t move when Officer Zemple rapped on the door. He opened it slowly, not wanting the person to fall out, and immediately picked up on the smell of alcohol. Dan reached across the man’s lap and turned off the ignition, and then, with a great deal of effort, rocked him back in the seat. An empty vodka bottle rattled to the floor. Still, the man didn’t rouse. Dan needed backup for this one and called for an ambulance. It arrived in minutes, and soon they had the intoxicated driver on his way to the hospital.

Officer Zemple was in the process of filling out his report at the hospital while he waited for the results of a blood alcohol test being run on the man. A nurse handed him a copy of the printout, and he wasn’t surprised at the .270 reading. As he suspected, the rough-looking character was terribly inebriated and would be placed in detox. He watched as an orderly untied and removed a pair of heavy boots from the man’s feet and then wheeled him away to his assigned room.

Dan was in possession of the man’s wallet, and he searched through it for an ID, finding the driver’s license. He copied the information onto the arrest form: James Peter O’Brian, height six-foot-six, weight 280 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. Dan was glad he hadn’t had to wrestle the man down. As he was finishing his paperwork and preparing to leave, the relative quiet was interrupted by a burst of activity. He sensed something serious was happening.

*****

The medical staff in the ER were waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Before it came to a complete stop, Joannie, the nurse, and an orderly were at its back door, pushing a gurney. With an efficiency honed by practice, the unconscious patient was transferred from the ambulance and wheeled through the sliding doors into the confines of the hospital. Joannie automatically looked at the clock above the nurses station and saw it was 10:35 p.m. She was the head ER nurse working the Saturday night shift, and would have to record the time in the patient’s chart.

Three people rushed by Officer Zemple, pushing a gurney with a seriously injured person lying on it. As they rushed by, he heard the nurse giving orders to the other attendants. Cut his shirt and pants off, she told the orderly in measured words. They disappeared behind the curtain of one of the ER rooms.

Jill, take his blood pressure. Mark, hook up the EKG electrodes, Joannie said when the gurney was in room five. She pried the patient’s eyelids open so she could test his pupils. Dilated and unresponsive to light, she announced as the ER doctor pushed aside the curtain.

Joannie stepped back from the bed and surveyed the bloody scene. The comatose young man was a mess. Not a square inch of his face was unmarked. Both eyes were swollen shut, his nose was bent off to one side, and his lips were cut and bleeding. His left ear hung by a thread of tissue, and teeth showed through a gash on his left cheek. She could hardly bear to look at him.

I think his trachea has suffered severe trauma, and I’m going to do a tracheotomy. I’m pretty sure we’ll have to hook him up to a respirator. The doctor’s calm tone seemed out of place considering the obvious emergency. Call an X-ray tech. I want a full set of pictures, and a CT scan. Start a Ringer’s Solution drip as soon as you have that IV in. Joannie was in the process of inserting the needle in a vein in his arm.

The doctor abruptly left when his pager beeped, and Joannie continued to administer care. He returned before she finished, looked at the monitors, and decided the patient had to be moved to X-ray. They wheeled him and all of the equipment attached to him to the elevator and took the two-floor trip downstairs, where they were met by the tech who was putting on her work smock.

It took the three of them—the tech, the doctor, and Joannie—to get the pictures he wanted. Then they moved him to an adjoining room where the CT scanner was located. Another technician took over, and the scan was started. From her vantage point behind a glass window that was treated to block radiation, Joannie watched the monitor screen as section after section of the man’s body was displayed.

She heard a thump each time his body moved a few inches so another image could be taken and watched as it progressively scanned toward his head. Though she was not a trained radiologist, the compound fracture of his right tibia, or shin bone, was easy to spot. As the scan moved upward, more gross damage became visible. His right hip was dislocated, and a piece of his ischium, the lower part of his pelvis, was broken off.

Joannie couldn’t interpret damage to the soft tissue—that would take a trained eye—but when the patient’s ribs were scanned, she instantly recognized that three of them on his left side were not only broken but caved into his chest cavity. No doubt they damaged his lung, she thought. She almost turned away, but the machine had reached his head, and she stood mesmerized.

What had been facial bones looked like a bowl of cornflakes. His nasal bones were mashed to one side of his face, and his zygomatic processes, cheek bones, were pushed so deeply into his eye sockets that she couldn’t make them out. His maxilla was caved into his mouth cavity, its attached teeth flattened against the roof of his mouth. She could see at least five fractures of his lower jaw, and above his ear, his temporal bone appeared to have been struck by a heavy object, maybe even a kick from a heavy boot. She could easily discern the point of the blow, because fine cracks radiated outward from its epicenter. Joannie shook her head.

He’s in big trouble, isn’t he? The ER doc didn’t answer but nodded. Together, Joannie, the orderly, and the radiological tech maneuvered the patient’s bed back to his room in ER.

We’ve got to try to make an ID on him and contact his next of kin, the doctor said. Call the trauma center in Duluth and have them send a Life Flight copter to pick him up. He’s too fragile to survive the trip by ambulance. The way it is, it’ll take more time than we may have for them to get here.

Chapter Three

Just as the medical staff in ER rushed past him with the critical patient, Officer Zemple’s pager went off, and he took the call.

Dan, we need you over here right away. We have a probable crime scene just off Paul Antonich Drive, near the soccer field. You’ll see our lights when you get here. The officer ran to his squad car, started it, and turned on his flashing lights. In four minutes he was at the soccer field and was met by the other officer on duty.

What’s up, Bill? he asked as soon as they were close enough to talk.

Not sure yet. The ambulance just left with a young man who’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know what happened to him. We might have a hit and run, or we might have a beating. I don’t know what else it could be. He sure as heck didn’t do it to himself, that I know.

The area had already been cordoned off with crime scene tape, and the two officers began to assess the situation. We’d better get the chief out here. Another set of eyes will be good, and I think this is going to end up being a serious case. We’ll let him give the orders. That’s why he gets the big bucks.

Bill made the call, which was answered by the groggy police chief. He grumbled something into the phone but was at the scene in fifteen minutes. Two Harbors is a small town, barely three thousand residents, and it didn’t take long to get from one end of the community to the other.

What you got here? he asked. Bill was tired of answering the same question, but he went through the same explanation he had given Dan.

The chief, Sig Swanson, surveyed the scene. Let’s get some spotlights set up. I don’t want to wait until morning to do a search of the area. He punched a number into his phone and ordered the person on the other end to bring a generator and some lights so they could get started with their investigation.

Dan shined his flashlight on the ground inside the taped perimeter. Looks like something on the ground over there. He pointed at an object in the grass. I’m pretty sure it’s a baseball cap.

Sig shined his light where Dan was pointing. Yeah, it is, but let’s wait to retrieve it until we have better lighting so we don’t trample evidence we can’t see. They shined their flashlights around while they waited for the spotlights to arrive and be set up.

Within fifteen minutes the lights came on, illuminating the grassy area enough that the investigators could move in for a closer look. Sig pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, carefully made his way to where the baseball cap lay on the sod, and picked it up. He mumbled to himself as he examined it, Whoever wore this had one big head. The adjustment strap was on the last notch. Then he turned it over and took note of the Harley symbol. In bold letters above the visor was embroidered the word Hammer. Sig dropped the hat in an evidence bag, signed and dated it, and wrote the time, 11:05 p.m.

Sig, take a look at this, Bill called to his superior. This will answer some questions.

Sig kept the evidence bag in his hand and walked over to where Dan and Bill were standing. When he got closer, he saw they were looking through a wallet.

We’ve got an ID on someone. Dan held the wallet in one hand and his flashlight in the other. It’s a Minnesota driver’s license for a Justin Peters, seventeen years old, five-foot-nine, one hundred fifty-five pounds. He lives only a few blocks from here, on Sixteenth Avenue.

Sig looked over Dan’s shoulder. "I’ll tell you what. We definitely have evidence of two people being here. The cap I picked up sure as heck wouldn’t fit this person. Take care of this evidence. I’m going to the hospital to find out what I can about the guy the EMTs picked up here.

Don’t be sloppy. We’re going to have to vouch for our methods in court. You can bet on that. Sig left as his officers finished sweeping the area for clues. He would return in the daylight with fresh eyes to check one more time before the tape came down.

At the hospital he stopped at the nurses station. A person was brought in a couple of hours ago. I need to talk to somebody about the patient. The nurse looked up.

Which one? Two came in at about the same time. One is in the drunk tank and the other is just coming back from the CT lab. He’s in room five, but he’ll be transferred to Duluth as soon as Life Flight gets here. Sig told her he wasn’t interested in some drunk.

Did the victim have an ID on him when he was brought in? Sig wanted to know. He strongly suspected he knew the answer, and the nurse shook her head. Sig checked his notes. We think he is Justin Peters. He lives on Sixteenth. Can I use your phone book to check on a number? Maybe we can get somebody over here to tell us who he is.

There were four Peterses listed, but only one on Sixteenth Avenue. Sig dialed the number.

Hello, an anxious woman answered.

Is this the Peters’ residence? Sig began, but before he could continue, the woman blurted out, Is he okay? Justin, I mean. He was supposed to be home two hours ago, and I haven’t been able to get him to answer his cell phone. Where is he?

For a minute Sig was speechless, then he asked, Are you Justin’s mother?

Yes, yes. Can you tell me where he is?

"Try to calm yourself, Mrs. Peters. Justin has had an accident, and he’s in the hospital emergency room. From the address on his license I see you live only a few blocks away. Will you